


Our Sunset

by WhyNotFly



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: First Date, It's about eye gouging, M/M, Martin says yes I'll run away with you, all soft edges here, and they grapple with the reality of that together, but no actual eye gouging takes place, just some emotional boys trying their best, no graphic descriptions or anything
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-17
Updated: 2019-10-17
Packaged: 2020-12-20 21:02:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21063140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhyNotFly/pseuds/WhyNotFly
Summary: The corkscrew sits on the table.  Jon sits on the couch.  In his kitchen, Martin picks up a mug and stares at it.  He has forgotten what he’d been planning to do.Nothing is as it should be.***Martin says yes to Jon's offer to run away, but it's not such a simple decision.  When you don't know what tomorrow will hold, you have to make sure you live today to its fullest.





	Our Sunset

The corkscrew sits on the table. Jon sits on the couch. In his kitchen, Martin picks up a mug and stares at it. He has forgotten what he’d been planning to do. 

Nothing is as it should be.

“Did you want some water?” Martin asks.

“Ah, yes, perhaps that would be best.” Jon taps out a nervous pattern on his lap. He listens to the strangely domestic sound of the sink running from the other room and pictures a life he doesn’t deserve. He hears a gasp. A shatter of ceramic. And then nothing. Jon nearly flings himself off the couch to rush the three long strides into the kitchen. Martin stands, staring silently down at a mug in pieces on the floor. Water pools out slowly over the tile. 

“Are you alright?” Jon asks, both because it’s the thing you say and because he desperately wants to know. 

“No,” says Martin. He doesn’t look up. “It doesn’t matter. We can just leave it. We...we have important things to do.”

“We’re going to want to clean it up now.” Jon steps forward again and his fingers itch to bridge the silent space between them. He hasn’t touched Martin once since they left the Institute together. He doesn’t want the first time he does to be violence. “It’ll be harder to do it safely. Afterward.”

“Right,” says Martin. “Afterward.”

They clean up the mug together. Their hands don’t touch once.

The work continues, efficient and silent. Jon and Martin don’t speak as they fetch towels and bandages and antiseptic and rubbing alcohol. 

“I’m sorry,” Martin says, nonsensically, and Jon has a strange feeling that his mind is still back in Elias’ office, laughing bitterly. “I’m not exactly prepared for this. Feels like the sort of thing you should go to hospital for?”

“Right, I’m sure they get a lot of walk-ins looking to be voluntarily _blinded_.”

Martin flinches a bit at Jon’s tone and he regrets it immediately. None of this is Martin’s fault. If anything, it’s Jon’s.

“W-well, we should at least take some more time to prepare.” Martin’s voice settles into a low, confident tone, cold and authoritative. It doesn’t sound anything like the Martin Jon remembers. He doesn’t dislike it, he just feels sad for having missed all the Martin’s in between then and now. He feels like an outsider looking in.

“No, we can’t,” Jon shakes his head and Martin’s lips twist into a little frown. “It has to be now, while we have the momentum. Can you promise me you’ll still want to do this tomorrow?”

“All the more reason to wait! A decision this big shouldn’t be rash, it should be...should be thought through, at least a little. We’re sacrificing a lot here, shouldn’t we at least sleep on it?”

Jon sighs deeply and sits down heavily on the couch. The pale blue towel stretched out over it crumples slightly beneath his weight. He runs a hand over his face, lets it stretch his mouth open, scratches his fingers through the messy stubble on his jaw. 

“I can’t, Martin. The Beholding can’t make me do things, yet at least, but it can make me _want_ to do things. And not want to do things too. I have to do it now while I’m sure, before it becomes too hard to overcome.” Jon hangs his head with the defeated certainty of someone who’s already lost this fight once. “Before I take the coward’s path.”

“How do you know this isn’t what it wants, then?”

“No.” Jon reaches out and grabs the corkscrew off the coffee table, his fingers wrapping around the slim wooden handle. As Martin watches, Jon’s hand begins to tremble just a bit, as if with fear, and then it grows stronger until his whole arm is wracked with such a terrible shaking that the corkscrew clatters from his hand back to the table. Jon stares at it for a long, sober moment. “No. It doesn’t want this.”

_I don’t want this_, Martin thinks, but that’s not what he means. He doesn’t want this to be necessary. He doesn’t want Jon to have to be mutilated in order to be able to control his own hands. He doesn’t want this life.

“Wow,” he says instead, “feeling really confident about you handling that near my eyes.”

Jon’s expression is so stricken with guilt that Martin almost wishes he hadn’t said anything. But recently, he’s been feeling a bit divorced from his sense of empathy. He finds it hard to miss it. It’s never done him much good up to this point. And it’s not empathy that sits him down on the couch next to Jon. It’s not sympathy either. It’s something older, and deeper, and warm enough that even the Lonely hasn’t chipped it all away.

“Okay,” says Martin, “if it needs to be now, then we’ll do it now. Together.”

“Together,” Jon echoes, picking up the corkscrew again. He grips his shaking hand tightly with his other, steadying himself. Martin uncaps the rubbing alcohol and pours it liberally over the sharp steel point. Jon takes in a shuddering breath and turns to face Martin, his hands clasped around the corkscrew like in prayer. 

Martin opens his eyes wide and Jon can see the flecks of brown mottling his blue eyes. He breathes in and out, trying to steady himself. Jon’s not sure how much of the shaking now is the Beholding, and how much is his own anxious heartbeat. Martin watches Jon coolly, not even sweating. Jon wonders for a moment if it’s all too late. If they’ve lost too much already. But they can’t have, not if they’re both still alive. Not as long as Martin is here with him.

“Are you scared?” Jon whispers as he lifts the corkscrew higher.

Martin snorts gently and the air brushes against Jon’s knuckles. “When you spend so much of your life afraid, it sort of loses its meaning, don’t you think?”

“Not in my experience.”

“Yeah,” Martin laughs again without blinking. “I suppose not.”

“Do you think we’ll stop being afraid, once we’re free?” Jon isn’t sure if he’s actually curious, or just stalling. He can’t stop looking at Martin’s wide, black pupils.

“No.”

“Yeah,” Jon agrees. “I suppose not.”

“Can we please get it over with?” An edge of hysterical energy sneaks into Martin’s voice. “I, uh, I can’t keep my eyes open that long.”

“Right, right, sorry.” Jon swallows and lifts the corkscrew, lining it up carefully with the soft bulge of Martin’s left eye. His eyelid flickers a little with a barely restrained need to blink and a slight panic that is more human than either of them have felt in a long time. Martin reaches out and lays one warm hand on Jon’s thigh, squeezing tight, both reassuring and asking for comfort. Jon’s hands start to tremble and the Eye has nothing to do with it.

He drops his hands to his lap. Martin blinks a few times and an involuntary tear drips from his strained eyes.

“Not yet,” Jon gasps, squeezing his grip on the corkscrew.

“I knew it.” Martin sounds equal parts tired and disappointed.

“N-no that’s not—”

“You were never going to do it, Jon. There’s always going to be another mystery you have to solve.”

“Martin, that’s not it.” Jon peels his hand off the corkscrew and presses it desperately on top of Martin’s on his thigh. He grips tight, trying to keep him close. “I just can’t do it to you. I can’t, I can’t hurt you.”

“Jon…” Martin says with a sigh and Jon tightens his grip, insistent.

“No, I need to be clear. I need to tell you now, while I can still see. Before….just in case.”

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean, Jon?”

“Martin, just, please.” Jon takes his hand off Martin’s and wedges his fingers beneath it, gripping it tight. “I’m trying to say I love you.”

“No, Jon,” Martin explains with a tired, patronizing air, “you’re just lonely. I would know.”

“No, Martin,” Jon says, more insistently. “I’ve...I've loved you for years. When I was on the run from the police, you were all I thought of. You were the first person I wanted to see when I woke up. When I said I wanted to do this together, I didn’t mean I was scared to do it alone. I meant I wanted to do it with you. Only with you. And I wouldn’t do it if you weren’t coming with me.”

“Oh.”

“Is that, is that okay?” Jon searches Martin’s inscrutable expression. “Are you angry?”

“Angry?” Martin shakes his head and laughs. “Kind of? Yes, Jon, I’m a little upset. Why didn’t you _tell me_?”

“Because of my many, many personal flaws?”

Martin laughs again, but it’s better this time. Thawed. “Jesus, Jon.”

Jon smiles grimly. It’s barely more than drawing his lips back to expose his teeth like a frightened animal. “I understand if you’re having second thoughts now. I wasn’t very upfront about my ulterior motives.”

“You’re the only asshole in the world who could call a confession of love an ulterior motive.” Martin lifts his hand off Jon’s thigh so that Jon can fully slide their hands together, interlacing their fingers tightly. “You know I love you too, right?”

“Do I?” Jon stares down at their joined hands as if they might disappear into fog if he doesn’t keep his eyes on them. “You haven’t been speaking to me.”

Martin reaches across Jon and grabs the corkscrew where it lies discarded on the coffee table. “I said yes, didn’t I?”

“Yes,” Jon agrees, and his voice breaks with gratitude. “You said yes.”

Martin shuffles further back on the couch and then guides Jon to lay down on his lap. Jon’s wide, dark eyes gaze up at him, full of trust, as if he can’t believe his luck. Martin wonders if he will always remember this, after he can no longer see anything at all. He curls over Jon and presses a long, soft kiss to his forehead.

The corkscrew is so familiar in his hand. He thinks of the worms, of the blood, of Jon’s screams as he plunged it into his leg. It feels like another life. Like a memory he is watching through someone else’s eyes. He lines the bright, curling blade up with Jon’s right eye, doing his best to steady himself so that he doesn’t slip and miss. Beneath his hands, Jon’s face softens into a relaxed contentment. Not a trace of fear.

“You know,” Jon murmurs, “I always wanted to count your freckles. Find out exactly how many you have. I guess I’ll never get to do that now.”

Martin’s hands tremble and the point of the corkscrew jumps and swerves.

“But it’s a lovely consolation that they’ll be the last thing I ever see.”

A tear drips off Martin’s chin and lands hot on Jon’s cheek. Jon blinks as another splatters near his eye. Martin draws the corkscrew to his chest in a tight fist as he starts sobbing, half curled over Jon’s body in his lap.

“Martin?” Jon sits halfway up, bringing a hand to the side of Martin’s face. Martin stubbornly refuses to let him draw him into eye contact, keeping his head down, eyes screwed shut, fat tears rolling down his cheeks.

“This isn’t fair,” Martin says. “How is this fair? After all of this, all this time, I get ‘I love you, now _blind_ me’? This is what we get? Why do we deserve this?”

Jon’s eyes flick across Martin’s face, reaching desperately for words of comfort. They’ve never come easily to him. “You didn’t do anything wrong, Martin. This isn’t your fault.”

“I know,” Martin shakes his head. “But why is this our life? Why does _this_ have to be our life?”

“I guess...” Jon drags himself fully up until he’s sitting on the couch next to Martin. He keeps their arms pressed tight together, the pressure comforting both of them. “I guess we just made the wrong choices. That’s what…being human is. Wrong choices. But we have the chance now to make some right ones.”

Martin lets his head slump to the side so that it bumps into the top of Jon’s. “I’m not backing out. And I know it won’t be the end. Being blind is, I mean, I assume it’s not that bad. I’ve never been blind before. I’m glad there’s a way out, and it’s the right choice to take it. But I wish we had more time. I wish we’d gotten a chance to be in love together first. I haven’t even kissed you yet. We haven’t even gotten to go on a date.”

Jon slips out from beneath Martin’s head and swings a leg over him, shifting awkwardly until he’s sitting in Martin’s lap. He takes the sides of Martin’s face in his hands and kisses him. It is the worst kiss Martin has ever had, all teeth and chapped lips and snot still dripping from Martin’s nose getting mixed up in it. But it is the best kiss he’s ever had with Jonathan Sims. And he feels another aching sob bubble up from his chest as he cries into Jon’s mouth and tries to think about nothing but this moment.

“Go out with me,” Jon says, breathlessly, as they pull apart. “If we’re going to start the rest of our lives, we deserve one date. Our first date.”

“But the Beholding—” Martin starts to say, but Jon swallows the words with his mouth, hot and hungry on Martin’s own.

“I want to do it now, and I’ll still want to do it tonight. Just a few hours.” Jon’s voice is husky, his breath warm on Martin’s lips. “We deserve one date together like this, before everything changes.”

“One date,” Martin echoes. “And then the rest of our lives.”

**

They go to an art museum. It’s Martin’s suggestion, and Jon can’t help but agree it’s practical. If he ever wants to go to an art museum, it’ll have to be today. They move through it slowly, absorbed in each other’s company, as if no one else exists in the world. Jon holds Martin’s hand and presses his face into the side of his shoulder, mumbling facts about artists and styles and color pigments into Martin’s skin. He tries to imagine a world where his mind is his own. 

At each painting, Martin kisses the side of Jon’s face and whispers back, _doesn’t this one make you sad_ or _this one is full of love_.

_Yes_, Jon always answers. _Yes, I think you’re right_.

How odd it is, he realizes, that everyone lives in the same world, but no two people see the same thing.

At the gift shop, Martin insists on buying a postcard of a piece they saw. A portrait of a young king, who stared out of the frame with the exact same focused, dark eyes as Jon. He looks so heavy on his throne, golden crown still painted on his brow even here hundreds of years after his death.

_You won’t be able to appreciate it_, Jon argues.

_I’ll remember it,_ Martin says. _I’ll remember what it looks like_.

So Jon buys it for him. And he buys them dinner at a small Indian restaurant they find nearby. They talk happily about returning, about coming back around to try the biryani next time. Neither of them knows if they are lying, so they just continue, and pretend they’re not occupied with memorizing every single smile and scrunched nose and loving glance.

It’s slightly too far to walk back to Martin’s apartment, but they decide to walk it anyway. Jon winds his arm in Martin’s and curls away from the cold evening air beneath his comforting bulk. They wander past beautiful parks, trees twisted up with string lights. They walk across streets lined in ugly decaying buildings, cracking concrete and crumbling brick facades. They stroll along the edge of the winding Thames, dying daylight glinting off its surface. 

When the sun begins to sink below the horizon, Martin tugs Jon to a bench and sits them both down to stare out at the dying colors bleeding across the sky. 

_It’s our last sunset,_ Martin insists. _We have to watch it._

They sit in silence, curled up together, as orange goes to purple, goes to blue.

“I don’t know if I’ve ever actually sat and watched a sunset before,” Jon admits. He plays with Martin’s hand in his lap, letting his fingers trace up and down the contours of his palm.

“The best part of a sunset,” Martin answers, “is that there’s always another one. Every day.”

“It’s nice knowing there’s another chance.” Jon lets his head curl into Martin’s chest as the sun slips entirely below the horizon. “Even I can’t screw it up.”

Martin runs his hand through Jon’s hair, scratching absentmindedly at his scalp. “What do you think it will be like? Afterwards?”

“I don’t know,” Jon says. “Isn’t that beautiful?”

“Yeah,” says Martin. “I guess it is.”

**Author's Note:**

> Special thanks to Hiri for recommending "No Choir" by Florence and the Machine as an excellent jonmartin song because she's very right and I listened to that on repeat while writing this piece.
> 
> If you liked this, you should come chat with me on tumblr @apatheticbutterflies I'm very cool and post writing and meta. Thank you for reading!!!


End file.
